Brave New World
by GrungierNine0
Summary: 500 years after the UNSC's fall, the New Order encounters a new threat. (Note: I wrote this on a poorly optimized cellphone, if you find errors, I'll do my best to fix them.)
1. Chapter 1

The sun shone through the ancient glass windows of the office. A man sat in the large chair behind the massive oak desk, hands steepled under chin. His stern face was blank, grey eyes staring ahead. One wall was lined with hundreds upon hundreds of ancient books. Philosophers, Scientists, political activists, even the scarce fictional masterpiece.

The man stood, he walked towards the wall, hoping to find enough time to catch a little reading. There it was. _Foundation, _Asimov's finest work, he went back to the desk. He always found the Mule to be the most interesting characters, it could be the similarities between the two. The Mule and He were both the leaders of powerful empires.

While the Empire of _Foundation _had already been gone for centuries by the time the Mule came to power, he had personally cast down the Old Order. The UNSC may have fended off the Covenant, but it later gave to much to them, and so had to be snuffed out. Over a course of fourteen years, he had manipulated, murdered, bought, or paid off untill he had power.

MIN-COM was the front for his schemes. The Mineral Commission had bought out it's competitors, spreading out in to multiple other fields of business, some legal, some not. And for another six years he worked in the background, turning the meager MIN-COM Security Force into the MIN-COM Enforcement Fleets, capable of crushing even the toughest armada.

Earth was once again a battle for the future of Man. And, as it tends to happen, the New Order rose above the Old one. Victory after victory against the various aliens in the Galaxy had guaranteed his new Empire a safe spot in the brave new world of his creation. But, as also tends to happen, age crept up to him. In his final months, he ordered the construction of the Cradle. Effectively making him immortal.

His cheating of the world's greatest equaliser earned him fear, and yet more power. A cult of personality unheard of before formed around him, even greater than the one surrounding the ancient Hitler. They viewed him as the manifestation of Humanity's Destiny. But, he reflected darkly, the cracks had formed, the seeds of rebellion sown in the minds of millions of his citizens.

And now, he again lead Man in the fight against Man. But these rebels were trickier to hunt, dragging the war on and on. Not that it mattered, an Empire of (at his last count) nearly a million worlds could not easily run out of resources and manpower. But it was a thorn in his side.

And now, five hundred years after the fall of the UNSC and forty years into the Rebellion, he sat in a dimly lit office in the most fortified building of Moscow, itself the capital of the most fortified empire in history.

He read for hours, nearly finishing the first book for the hundredth time. A knock came at the door. He closed the book, and set it gently on the desk.

"Come in."

His Fleet Minister entered, without knowing that the moment he had entered the room, four hidden .50 Calibre machine guns tracked him.

"Ah, I do see you are catching up on your reading First Citizen Mirkhov."

"Very astute my friend, I've been infatuated with the works of Asimov since I was very young. You may be seated."

The Fleet Minister sat in one of the chairs in front of the massive oak monolith. Accepting the offered glass of vodka.

Mirkhov spoke again, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I recently received a report from the Sixteenth Fleet, the cruiser _Varyag_ sent the message."_  
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"Good ship, commissioned it's construction 60 years ago. I believe your own grandfather captained it."

The Minister took a draught of vodka, "He did, but that's unimportant as of now. They report having found an old UNSC Research Station."

"Did they find Ultra?"

Another bit of vodka, "It appears they did, seeing as how the schematics for the _Iinfinity-II_ were aboard."

Mirkhov stood, a faint smirk on his face.

"Good man! Give the entire fleet a rest period for this, and I'd say you've earned a day off."

"Thank you sir, but that isn't all that was contained in the message."

The smirk disappeared, and with a definitely irked voice, "What else was in the message Andrews?"

The Fleet Minister took another exceedingly long draught of vodka, his hands shook lightly.

"The message indicated that, and this was simply the Captain's report, that an unknown ship managed to destroy a frigate and two troop transports."

Mirkhov felt his blood pressure rise, substantially. With a voice calmer than a frozen lake, he spoke once more.

"What do you mean 'unknown' ship, Andrews?"

The Minister was shaken by the calm, "I mean, it wasn't in any of our databases. Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"You seem eerily calm, First Citizen."

Mirkhov smiled, his cold eyes becoming slits in the stern face.

"I can assure you my friend, I am anything but fucking CALM!"

The First Citizen hurled his own glass of vodka through the air, it shattered on the wall a few meters away.

"You bring me a status report, and leave out the most important fucking thing on that damned report! I mean, sure it's just damn peachy we found schematics to one of the most advanced ships ever built, but good God man! You could have at least mentioned the damn casualties!"

Andrews remained seated, his muscles resisted his every order to break away and run.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, please don't take it out on my family, please!"

Mirkhov eased back into the chair, his voice again as calm as could be.

"You are young Andrews, you are impatient, I on the other hand, am very old. And therefore somewhat forgiving. I am not an evil man, I will give you a chance to fix this mess. But, don't mess up, for your family's sake. Dismissed."

The Fleet Minister stood and saluted, bustling out of the room quickly, ignoring the shattered glass. Mirkhov was again alone, he reached into his desk drawer, finding both his heart medication. And the remote activator for the rooms' cleaning robot.

Half an hour later, the holographic computer inside the oak desk displayed the one still image of the unknown vessel, before it had retreated from the Sixteenth Fleets' area.

He muttered to himself darkly, "And now, we have a new threat to deal with."

(_After the flop that was Butchers Hand, I've written this. Review if you so wish. Da Svidaniya!)__  
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	2. Chapter 2

It was near midnight, Moscow time at least. The heavy snowfall of the evening hours left at least three inches stuck to the ground. The only person on the road jogged along quietly, quickly.

First Citizen Yuri Mirkhov had made a late night jog a tradition of his for decades. It helped clear the mind, more easily than hiding away in his office.

His scuffle with Andrews nearly two days ago had brought problems, and now Mirkhov made plans to personally inspect the Sixteenth Fleet. After Victory Day of course, not the one celebrated during his childhood. The world had forgotten it. He still celebrated it in his own way, but the new Victory Day was even bigger than the original one. Much more important to.

The streets of his hometown Moscow had changed in five centuries, but he still remembered what they all looked like. Even the rubble strewn battlefield that had been this city when he had returned to Earth, during one of the single bloodiest days in human history. The UNSC had known Moscow was his home, and had stationed enough troops to ensure the destruction of the city would be necessary for victory.

He activated his brain implant, the time was now 1:05 AM. He made the decision to jog another mile. He turned a corner, a young couple walked the pavement, hand in hand. He passed with a polite nod, the couple didn't realize he was who he was and kept walking. He saw the street sign. Centuries ago, it had been called a different name. He grew up on this street, and had bled on it to.

**500 years earlier.**

The drop pod accelerated rapidly. Piercing Earth's atmosphere with the telltale entry howling, Yuri Mirkhov sat in the pod. A suit of power armor encased him, built in defibrillators and pain numbing drug needles would ensure his survival, at least for a while. He was dropping in with the MIN-COM Fleet Marine Corp. Dropping into the suburban sprawl that was Moscow.

While not as refined as the suits of armor Spartans wore, it was capable of being mass produced in the millions, thanks to MIN-COM controlling the majority of mankind's industrialized worlds. Through the windows of the pod, he could see thousands of others dropping with him, and many thousands more were being deployed from space above. The UNSC would die today, Yuri felt it in his gut.

The pod landed, crushing the top three floors of an abandoned apartment building. Even after the impact, he could feel the other pods landing, shaking the ground with their weight. He kicked forwards, splintering the plasteel door and sending it flying through the air.

He reached for and found his C1000 Heavy Rifle, along with the dozen grenades that came standard in all MIN-COM drop pods. Hidden in a locker on board was his officer's pistol.

"Sergeant Ramage, status report."

The sergeants thick voice came over the com-net, "Heavy fighting in our block sir, 4 dead, 6 wounded."

"Did Danzig report in?"

"He says he's hit his mark."

"Patch him through."

Mirkhov sprinted down the street, a UNSC Marine stood from behind a sandbag barrier. He died with two well placed shots in his head. Further down, a mounted machine gun turned to face him. He had enough time to twist behind a wall, bullets flew by him.

"Private Danzig, I could use a little assistance here."

The third floor window of a condominium above the gun nest exploded outwards, showering the gunners with glass. Two Marines fired back into the window while the third rotated the gun.

Mirkhov broke cover, sprinting towards the nest, Archangel was drawn, silvery metal gleaming in the sun. He thumbed the activation key, encasing the blade in energy, the nest was even closer. At 3 meters, he jumped, steam in the armor's back pack lifted him.

He drew a pistol on one Marine, firing twice into his chest. He sent a bone breaking metal fist into the third. A 4 round burst from his rifle silenced the last one.

"Jesus Christ, remind me not to piss you off."

"Ah, Danzig, I see you've decided to grace us with your presence. Are you enjoying your trip to Moscow so far?"

"Definitely more than the poor bastards you just took care of."

Another Fleet Marine came out of the condo, a rocket launcher rested on his shoulders.

"That's Dekker, he doesn't talk much."

Dekker gave a fleeting thumbs up to Mirkhov, who returned the gesture. Dekker pointed to the east, his voice was quiet, outspoken.

"Movement."

The three soldiers turned, tracking for targets. None heard the Spartan-IV creeping through the building next to them, active camouflage concealing his movements.

Dekker snapped back, blood trailing from a wound in his chest. Danzig was hit next, a bullet sliced through the weaker throat plating of his armor, killing him instantly. Mirkhov hit the deck, he knew how to deal with Spartans.

The armored form of the Spartan-IV sprinted out of cover, searching for the final MIN-COM soldier. She heard low humming to her left, turning to face it.

Mirkhov stayed quietly behind the Spartan, now he was ready. He stood and charged the other soldier, sprinting as hard as the Power Armor would allow. The Spartan turned to face the new threat, she was too late. Steel met steel as the two collided.

In a football like tackle, they slammed through the wall next to them. Cracking bone and glass as the somewhat smaller Spartan was pinned down for a few seconds. She kicked into Mirkhov's chest, lifting the bigger man off of his feet. Yuri noticed the building had been under a remodeling process, a sledgehammer sat near him.

With a head of Titanium-A, it would do some damage. He charged the Spartan again, swinging the hammer in a wide arc. It connected, cracking the glass view pane of the Spartans' helmet. Mirkhov spun around again, seeing the face of his enemy exposed for the first time.

Her eyes were a piercing blue, her face pale and scarred in places. Yuri would have found her pretty, if not for the fact that they both wanted the other dead. He lifted his arms, finding the release for his own helmet. He pulled it off slowly. Knowing the fight was drawing to an end, one way or another.

Yuri charged, raising the hammer above his head. She was quicker, a hidden energy sword was now in her hand, raised to catch the hammers' fall. It sliced through his left arm with ease, it fell away, still clutching the hammer.

The pain numbing drugs could subdue pain, but he still felt that. He screamed with a mixture of rage and pain as he slammed into the woman. He charged into the wall, snapping the womans' head against it. She fell to the floor, dazed for a moment.

Yuri took his chance, he brought his foot down onto her chest, pinning the woman. With his only good arm, he drew his officers pistol. He fired three .44 armor piercing rounds into her head at point blank range. The Spartan-IV had finally died.

He stepped outside, carrying the hammer on his shoulder. He was dizzy, he had probably given himself a concussion. He fell forwards onto his knees, the drugs only worked for so long.

The pain was fading away slowly as he slipped into nothingness. The MIN-COM reinforcements found him a few minutes later, calling down a dropship to carry their commander to safety. A new arm was made a few weeks later.

**500 years later.**

He had been remembering that day again, his implant read 2:16 AM now. He stopped on the sidewalk, breathing lightly. He turned back to the direction of Red Square.

The Kremlin's security staff opened the gate for him, he walked down the halls, shoes echoing off of the floors. His quarters were nothing special, 500 years of life would do that, he changed into his regular attire. His left arm, the one he had lost out in those streets, seemed to call out to him. The metal of the replacement prostheses shone dimly in the little room.

He traced his right index finger along the line where flesh met steel, flexing each of the metal fingers. Even half a millennium later, it still bothered him. He stepped into his office a few minutes later, and started a pot of very strong coffee.

"Back to work for today."

(CHAPTER 2, YAAAAY!, for my own sanity I'm keeping this one short. The Battle of Moscow will be further elaborated on in later chapters. Da Svidaniya!)


	3. Chapter 3

_(After a couple months, I present to you, CHAPTER 3!)_

The first years of First Citizen Yuri Mirkhov's rule had been far from utopian. Political purges, massacres, even the sterilization of several young alien species. The Sangheli Federation had stood against the resurgent superpower. They had resisted for a considerable length of time, but had ultimately fallen to the wayside of fate.

The butchers bill had ultimately been tallied at more than twelve billion Elites, owing to humanity's domination of naval tactics, and the use of weapons of mass destruction on a mass scale. Yuri had driven his armies into a killing frenzy, using revenge as the key. Whole worlds had been smashed with a sledgehammer of blood and iron.

The Vengeance War, as it came to be called, had cemented fear of man in the hearts of any alien on the Orion Arm. But outside of the Arm, dozens of other species had stood against the "upstart" human race, had either been exterminated or forced into their own home systems, or in the case of a race known as The Hive, been subject to forced population control.

Now, centuries later, the Hand was reaching through uncharted space. Ancient UNSC deep space research stations were being found constantly, which brought Yuri Mirkhov to his present place in time and space.

The Agamemnon-class Cruiser was simply a reworked Infinity-class, with bigger and better guns, as well as the capacity to carry a little over 500 extra soldiers. The soldiers, known affectionately as "The Hangmen" as they were generally used to punish wayward worlds, were drawn from all corners of the Empire and could only be accepted if they had served 1-2 combat tours.

Mirkhov's quarters were in the middle of the miles-long vessel (not the largest ship; that honor went to the infamous Tyrant-class Supercarrier) and raised slightly above the main body. The sleek black stretched on, bristling with missile-pods and added gun batteries. Above the fireplace, that would even blaze in null-g thanks to a unique ventilation system, hung a massive map of the Empire of Man.

Yuri sat on a leather recliner, a glass of fine vodka swirled about in his non-robotic hand, and he pondered the past, present, and possible future. The ship was currently tearing through slipspace towards the Nova Roma system, the location of Ultra and the Sixteenth Fleet. He pondered a discussion he had had an eternity before, with a Spartan, the Master Chief no less, about the future.

The legendary hero had gone into retirement after the Covenant War, and after the Battle of Moscow he went into hiding on the American continent. Yuri's thoughts drifted back to the meeting between man's greatest soldier, and himself.

**Earth, 2593, Chicago **

The bar was built in an older fashion, with an actual wooden bar and stools, and then tables stretching across the wall behind. No booths were occupied, and that was good for Mirkhov's purpose. Though normally Yuri would dispatch an Internal Stability agent to find the UNSC super-soldiers, the man he looked for deserved more than a field spook in a suit.

There he was, 6'10, older, but still in prime condition, with bright eyes that took everything in. Though his closest advisors had urged him not to go, he had gone anyway. No one in the pub would notice Mirkhov, except the Spartan, who was already watching intently. Yuri stepped to the table,

"This taken?"

The Spartan answered in a deep voice, "No."

"Thank you."

Yuri reached into his coat pocket and produced from it a file several hundred pages thick, and a pack of cigarettes.

"You got a light?"

Shake of the head, "Don't smoke."

Mirkhov set the cigarettes aside, and flicked open the file.

"King, Jonathan, Sierra-117. Born...you know about your own life and I feel it counterproductive to repeat things."

"What's the point of this? Why not just send one of your goons in to drag me off?"

"Because, my good fellow, I felt you deserved more than a faceless g-man. You, being a Spartan and all, represent a challenge to my new government."

"And why is that?"

"Don't play naive. Spartans, especially you, are dangerous. But, you are all of you hugely responsible for the survival of man. For that, you are given the chance to be sent to a planet of your choice, with the promise on pain of death that you won't band together and try to subvert me."

The Spartan looked to the bar, the bartender readied a glass of beer, and grabbed a bottle of vodka off the wall.

"Is there a third option?"

Yuri reached into his pocket again, and gently set a large caliber pistol on the table.

"No thanks."

The pistol slipped away. The bartender reached the table and deposited the beer and vodka, with a nod to Mirkhov he spoke, "First Citizen." and walked away.

"So, you personally risk coming here just to talk with me, even after the Ganymede 'incident' and offer me exile or suicide. There's still the chance that I could reach across this table and snap your neck."

Yuri sipped some vodka. "I know you won't, and even if you did, there is a high altitude bomber above us with enough ordinance to level this building and the surrounding 3 miles of city. Even you couldn't survive, let alone the hundred thousand people around us.

"Now, let's cut to it. If you choose exile what are the chances you would scheme with your brothers and sisters? Or become a merc? Or even join up with the Elites?"

The Spartan had expected this, "None. I don't talk with the 3's or 4's, I don't like the idea of killing for money, and I trust the Elites about as far as I can throw them.

"But if I may ask, why worry about me fighting with Elites?"

Mirkhov nodded, "War, simply put. The Elites stand between me and my goals, and a soldier such as yourself could be utilized to terrible effect."

"So. You fear my presence could turn the war against you and your little dreams."

"My dreams, sir, are anything but the future path for humanity."

"But they generally involve the deaths of millions."

"For what price? The prosperity of billions? I view it as a necessary evil to ensure not only man's survival, but his prosperity."

John chuckled cynically, "Nietchze would be proud."

"He may. He also said morality held back the strong and advanced the weak."

"Your point being?"

"Nietchze said what he said when humanity was still stuck in one solar system, when morality was needed to ensure our continued survival. Morality isn't needed anymore, as even if a human colony of, lets say, 7 billion, is wiped from existence, it won't jeopardize the species.

"Mortality is outdated. It's use is superfluous in the grand scheme of things. The strong can't be held back if we want to survive in a hostile universe."

John took a swig of his own nearly gone drink, "Where do Spartans fit into this 'grand scheme'?"

Mirkhov reached into the files and retrieved a picture of John along with many other Spartans, "Even after years of bloody fighting, you all developed some sort of moral code. Some didn't, mind you, but even they would help the rest of you in a fight.

"Spartans represent a threat to me not simply because of their augmentations, but their morals would inevitably conflict with mine. Or rather, my lack of proper morals."

"There isn't any way you expect us to lay down our arms, is there? We fought the Covenant for years, and some of us even fought you-"

"And failed."

"-but that wouldn't matter. Do you know how people would react when they learn you simply deported it's heroes? Rioting, civil conflict, war. Your empire would crumble through your fingers before we laid down to die.

"I'll surrender. If only to humor a man that'll be dead in a few years anyway."

Mirkhov looked the Spartan in the eye, "How do you think I would react to this 'civil conflict' hm? First I'd smear your reputation, demoralize your supporters, and then begin the crackdown.

"I've been comparatively merciful to you Spartans, but that doesn't mean I'd pull my punches. Concentration camps, prisons, re-education complexes. I know how to wage a propaganda war, better than the UNSC did anyway, seeing as how hundreds of millions of people on Earth picked up rifles and fought for me in Moscow, New York, and Shanghai.

"And even if you survived that, I'd scorch any world you hid on, burn cities to nothing, search every nook and cranny until you were found. Then after I found you, your very painful and public executions would disillusion any other punk wannabe.

"Think on that, and contact me if you can." Yuri bowed slightly in politeness, threw down enough money to pay for both drinks, and walked away.

John later choose exile and died years afterwards, surrounded by fellow Spartans and friends.

**En route to Nova Roma, Starship Agamemnon, 3052 **

Yuri looked at the looming map, vaguely remembering the short civil wars that had erupted during those initial years. Though thankfully enough the Spartans had not chosen sides. The ship was near Nova Roma now, and Yuri stood, dressed into a clean uniform and left.

Beyond the Nova Roma system, in the void between stars, two personalities argued,

"I warned the council about attacking their fleet. Now look what it's brought us, him, we can't predict his actions, we should have fled with the rest of our kin."

The Second spoke, "Do not lose focus my friend, we simply have to maintain our secrecy until he leaves. Then all will be well, _they _will see to that."


End file.
